


Possession and Rebinding

by WhoopsOK



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Accidental Watersports, Aftercare, Crying, Light Bondage, Other, Psychological Torture, pittakionophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-28 07:30:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11413143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhoopsOK/pseuds/WhoopsOK
Summary: "though she’s having fun trying and John is having fun watching her try, he still thinks Root doesn’t quite appreciate what she’s dealing with here."(Root attempts to break John and, surprisingly enough, it works this time.)





	Possession and Rebinding

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Hello Kitty](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11174592) by [bloodandcream](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodandcream/pseuds/bloodandcream). 



> So the bloodandcream wrote a very interesting sastiel fic about pittakionophobia and I was inspired.

See, here’s the thing, John has been “interrogated” a lot of ways in his life, and while many of them are extraordinarily painful, and most of them are experiences he would like to never repeat in this life or the next, he doesn’t doubt he could handle most all of them again if he had to.

Root has been plain about her desire to break him, though she hasn’t expressly said what that means. Perhaps it’s tears, though John can’t really imagine a context in which she could make him cry short of hot sauce, which would be cheating. Perhaps safe-wording, but he isn’t sure she can do that to him either. He’s been doing this a lot longer than the few months since he’s agreed to be her play thing. So though she’s having fun trying and John is having fun watching her try, he still thinks Root doesn’t quite appreciate what she’s dealing with here.

Also, Harold is there to supervise today which means she isn’t planning on getting too crazy.

Harold can watch her tie him up and hit him, maybe even use a violet wand or something similar, but anything more than that makes him a bit queasy. “ _More than that_ ” only happens behind closed doors, with just the two of them, and Root at least has the good graces to make Shaw bandage him up before dumping him at Harold’s feet to be looked after (“coddled” they would both say, but not where Finch can hear them). But Harold is here, so that’s not what he’s getting today. At most, John is expecting a pleasant sting in his skin, maybe a bitten lip and a hand job if she’s feeling kind.

The look in her eyes says she is not, but it’s in contrast to everything else about this scenario.

She has him tied easy. Scarves not rope, firm but fragile, keeping his wrists behind his back and his ankles tied to the legs of the chair. He notes, professionally, that the chair is wooden and not bolted to the floor. He could get out of this comically easily, but he guesses the point is that he doesn’t.

Or it’s just for the aesthetic, perhaps. Naked on dark wood and bound with royal blue? It’s admittedly a good look. He presses out his chest, flexes – defiant, teasing.

Finch flushes, silently stroking the rim of his tea cup. Root just smiles and says, “Don’t move.”

John gives her a small, cheeky smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

She walks behind him and starts rifling through Finch’s desk. The noise is just a ploy, John knows. She knows what’s in that desk and knows exactly what she means to get out of it. She just doesn’t want him guessing and, really, all he can narrow down is what it’s not going to be. Any of the writing utensils would be a little too arthouse for her tastes and the stapler would be further than Finch would want to see. Maybe Finch let her stash something non-office related and it’s just another layer of subterfuge for John that she’s even over there. Regardless, he’s lax and unworried. Still half-hard and smirking at Finch.

John knows the moment Root has what she’s looking for, because it makes Finch’s face contort with confusion. There’s a moment where it looks as though he’s going to ask something, but eventually, just sets his tea aside and folds his hands, intrigued. Huh.

When Root crosses back into John’s line of sight, it takes him a second to recognize what she’s carrying. His brain, used to a very specific line of work, supplies “taser” first – it wouldn’t be the first time, but she definitely wouldn’t use that in front of Finch – but then his stomach does a weird somersault when he realizes it’s… just a label gun.

…‘Just.’

John can tell the blood draining from his face is visible from the way Finch’s eyebrows raise in surprise, but he tries to pretend it’s not happening. His gaze has locked back on Finch’s face instead of Root’s hands, comfort-seeking, but that makes him feel like a coward – it’s _just a label gun, he’s a goddamn_ soldier, _for goodness sakes_ – and so he turns to stare her down. That seems to delight her and she smiles, though the mean light in her eyes is not lost on him. She can tell he’s on a quick spiral to terrified and she’s pleased as punch to have put him on it.

“Don’t move,” Root says again and quick as lightning, drags the labeler across his knee. And John doesn’t mean to move, he doesn’t, but for once, his reflexes betray him. He jerks before he can control it, his whole body tensing so hard he starts trembling. His eyes glued to the _sticker_ on his skin, actually _on_ his _skin_ and—

“I said don’t move, Lug,” Root sings and for a long moment John doesn’t even realize she’s spoken. He can’t detach his brain from the crawling sensation all over his skin.  The silk fisted in his hands tears when she puts another one on his stomach, just over his navel. His teeth are clenched in an attempt to hold back an actual shout when she moves up over his nipples, a plain white label for each. “I don’t want to miss.”

When she puts one against his jugular, he can’t quite keep silent, a cry – _cry, since when as he ever made that sound?_ – hisses through his teeth. The corners of the label are sharp and with every shudder they jab into the crease between his throat and jaw, with every heartbeat he can feel the adhesive pull at his skin. He starts actively whimpering when he realizes he’s sweating profusely, which makes everything worse because _they’re going to move, they’re going to start sliding and get stuck somewhere he won’t be able to get them in time, he won’t be able to find them._

“Root,” he wheezes, just her name, because he can’t think past that. If he were able to focus over the panic boiling over his mind, it would feel like a loss. She’s never commanded him not to speak, he knows it doesn’t make a difference to her, but he usually stays silent. Groans when it’s good or when it’s not, talking when he wants to instigate her to do more. He’s never involuntarily spoken, for _anyone_ , but he doesn’t feel like anyone right now. Whoever John is has been shoved back by the stickers on his skin, he isn’t anything but his desire to get them off. He’s so scared he’s getting dizzy. “ _Root_.”

“Yes?” Root sings and presses another sticker to his limp dick. He jerks so hard the chair creaks, coughing out a sound that would be considered a sob to some audiences. “Did you need something?”

John doesn’t know if he can speak without crying, doesn’t know if he was even meant to respond or exactly what would come out if he tried. But in the pause, when Root raises the labeler towards his face, the word leaps to the forefront of his mind and out of his mouth before he can even think to stop it.

“ _Please,_ ” he croaks quickly, jerking his head back, and Root freezes.

Her eyes are wild-bright when she leans into his face. “What was that?”

John is struggling to breathe. “You—” What does she want? Find it quick, give it up, _get these off_. Is it begging? Fine, he’ll “— _please_ , Root, please.”

The smile that stretches over Root’s face is in no way comforting, even as she cups his cheek. “That’s not a safeword, Lug.”

John stares at her in horror, abruptly realizing that whatever he does now – safe-wording, or begging, or crying, or screaming, or crushing himself to the silent nowhere where pain can’t touch him– whatever it is, it’s exactly what she wants. She’s gotten him to this place and no matter what he says now, she has _this._ This understanding of what she could do to him and what she _has_ done to him. Six stickers and she’s got him on the brink of a breakdown; no matter what he chooses to do now, she will always know what he looks like when he falls apart, this memory will be hers. He has no choices, he has _too many_ choices and they’re all _right_ as far as she’s concerned and he _can’t sort any of it out, he’s going to cry, he can’t do this_.

“You—” She wants everything and he doesn’t know where to start giving.

Then she squeezes his jaw and the labeler connects with his forehead and the world goes white and ringing like the second after a bomb goes off in which nothing exists.

Then John is on the floor.

And though part of him understands this immediately, it still takes him a moment to orient himself.

He’s on his knees and he’s got fabric dangling from his wrists – the remainder of the scarves – and clenched in his fists – rougher than the scarves. Pants? Pant legs are clenched in his fists and John’s thighs are damp – _he smells piss_ – where they’re folded underneath him. His teeth are chattering and he’s got his head pressed against Harold’s knees; he only knows this because his tears are dripping on Harold’s shoes.

“There’re all gone now, John,” Harold is saying softly, but isn’t shushing him or trying to move him just yet. His hands rest easy on John’s head. “All the labels have been removed. Root has taken them all off.”

“And folded them shut,” Root says and bites John’s back. He shudders; she knows pain is so much easier than whatever this is and her teeth are a familiar source of it. He tries to focus on that. “All seven, folded and thrown away,” she says and bites his shoulder, harder. Her hands are smoothing across every area she had placed a sticker, John tries to focus on the feeling of her hands on his bare skin, no stickers between them. He tries.

John isn’t exactly sure why he even opens his mouth in the first place, but all that comes out is a garbled curse.

“You’re ok now, John,” Harold soothes and Root bites him again, digs her nails into his chest, his thigh, runs her thumb over his cock.

John isn’t quite sure how long they let him stay there like that, but when he pulls his face away from Harold’s legs, he’s numb halfway to his knees. Root pushes him onto his hip, grabs his calves. “Can you stand, Lug?” and it’s both a taunt and a genuine question.

“Not yet,” Harold answers primly as soon as John opens his mouth to say something stupid. John shuts his mouth and puts his head back on Harold’s knee. He has a headache now and if Harold wants to be his voice, well, John wouldn’t pick anyone else to do so anyway.

When his blood is flowing again, a great deal of it rushes back to his face, embarrassed. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see one of the chair legs is cracked out of place and there’s a puddle on the floor. The labeler is across the room, shattered, and John is horrified to find he isn’t sure if he’s the one who did that or not. There isn’t a thing in the world he can do to take back their knowledge of this and it’s enough to set him to shaking again. Root moves to block his line of sight about a half second before Harold takes his face in his hands and turns him around. John will go wherever Harold moves him, so when he’s tugged up to his knees and kissed, he doesn’t fight it.

“There’s no need for that, John, you did very good,” Harold says in their shared breath, tenderly, like he means it and John shudders against his lips. “You did wonderfully, darling.”

Eventually, though, he does get to his feet, Root’s hands hard on his biceps. “Harry won’t let me have playtime anymore if I don’t clean his toys before I shelve them,” she says and John feels a little more grounded with her smart mouth, the way Harold’s lips twist, only mildly annoyed. “Come on, Lug.”

Harold pats his stomach. “Go on, then, John. I’ll be here after.”

It’s a chance for him to clean up John’s mess and John has half a mind to beg to do it himself, the urge to prostrate himself on the floor and ask forgiveness burning hot in his throat. Harold does not look like he needs or desires an apology, though, and Root is pulling him towards the bathroom. It isn’t until she follows him in, closing the door behind them, that he notices her eyes.

Her pupils have her eyes shot almost completely black.

Root rarely kisses him, but when she leans in and bites viciously at his collar bone, between them, it’s almost the same thing. It’s visible, like a statement that she’d keep him even after whatever he just did, or maybe especially because of it.

When she gets undressed and pushes him into the shower, they just watch each other. John isn’t exactly sure what it is she can’t find the words to say, but she’s trembling against him, with glee and what he can only imagine is the closest she ever gets to reverence for another human being. She washes him without speaking and he does his level best to not start crying again. He has never thought of her as merciful and doesn’t know what to do with that knowledge.

“Did you ask _Her_?” he asks softly, unsure if he actually even wants the answer.

“Yes,” Root answers, rinsing his hair. He struggles to be still as her fingers run over his neck, but she doesn’t squeeze or linger. She rinses him off and turns off the water. “She wouldn’t tell me.” He only has a moment to consider that before she tosses a towel over his head. His world is soft white when she says, “Now, let’s give Harry his favorite helper monkey back.”

Hearing the softness in her voice, John takes a risk and catches her fingers between his before she can lead him out of the room. “Not again,” he says shakily, just to confirm.

The smile she gives him is the usual overly saccharine one, all meanness, but this time completely unrestrained, reflex. For a brief moment, she strokes her thumb over his fingers.

 “Nope,” she agrees blithely, “Don’t need it.”

John doesn’t quite know how to describe the feeling that goes through him at that, but he knows if he hadn’t already been slightly pink from the shower, he would’ve gone flush. As it is, he dries himself off and dutifully follows Root out.

When they enter the main room, they find it back in order and smelling faintly of lemon, all evidence of their previous encounter gone. They also find Harold as they normally do after John’s harder scenes, seated at his desk with donuts and a fresh cup of tea on the table. John is, of course, more interested in the blanket by Harold’s feet. Harold smiles when they come into view, swiveling to face them and offering John a pair of sweat pants and a shirt. He only shakes his head bemusedly when John refuses the shirt. They both know it’s plenty warm under the desk.

John shifts slightly when Root scratches, not exactly gently, between his shoulder blades in parting. “All yours, Harry.”

“Thank you, Ms. Groves,” Harold says, and when Root has kissed his temple and turned from the room, he motions John to the floor.

John goes to his knees before Harold, leaning up to be kissed, humming when Harold obliges him. They are quiet for a few moments as Harold tips the cup of tea towards John’s mouth, watching intently as he feeds John bites of donut. John generally only agrees to this because Harold feels better being able to give it, but today, is immensely grateful for the moment to let the last of the shivers pass out of his body.

“Are you well?” Harold asks, stroking lightly behind John’s ear. His fingers press under John’s chin when he tries to lower his eyes. “ _Are you well_ , beloved?”

John hesitates. “I don’t want to do that again.”

“We won’t,” Harold promises. “I was unaware it would affect you so or I might have intervened.”

John shifts, leaning forward to press his face to Harold’s soft tummy. “I know…” He feels like he should explain himself, but can’t begin to parse what he could say that would do justice to the wordless irrationality of a phobia he almost never has to deal with. He doesn’t know how to explain the alarming weight of their holding this knowledge and the simultaneous fuzziness of knowing they’ll never use it against him, the fact that he absolutely _trusts_ that.

“You don’t have to say anything more on it, John,” Harold says as if sensing his distress, stroking his hair. His hand paused, “In fact, I would very much like to give you a reward. Have you any requests?”

John vaguely entertains the thought of his collar and the new elbow length gloves Finch bought. He swallows and nods, but knows Finch would not want him to push himself. “Maybe tomorrow.”

“Of course,” Harold replies gently. “What can I do for you now?”

The words feel watery and indistinct, but when John pulls away, Harold, ever patient and understanding, lets him go. John lowers himself to the blanket and pulls off Harold’s shoes before settling down in the dim warmth under the desk. Harold’s bare feet come to rest on his back as soon as he lays down.

“I just want to hear you,” John says, peeking up just in time to see a loving smile spread across Harold’s face.

“Always, John,” Harold replies before straightening up in his chair. John shuts his eyes and lets Harold’s words wash over him. He doesn’t start reading a book, but instead picks up one of his favorites, beginning the tale by explaining how it came into his possession and the process of its rebinding.

John huffs a soft laugh as he finds he can very nearly sympathize.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading... may your fears never stop you
> 
> (And if you think I should add a tag or change the rating, feel free to say so!)


End file.
